Behind the Veil
by wildpeace
Summary: Post Season 3 episode ficlets, various couples.  Whatever takes my fancy or I feel was missing from the episodes.  Hope you enjoy!  Marked as complete because each ficlet can stand alone, marked as Tike because most of them probably will be!
1. SanTina You set a piano on fire

"What I can't figure out is what the fuck you *thought* would happen."

The bleachers are empty, save a wafting scent of smoke from the recently departed 'Skanks' below, and one single person huddled on the top, arms wrapped around her torso and her red and white Cheerios jacket zipped up to the neck. Santana lifts her head up, slowly, and stares down at the angry sounding person beneath her.

"What?"

Tina rolls her eyes, marching up the steps, her boots clattering on the rickety wood, the purple collar of her buttoned dress peeking out from under her black Fall jacket. There's still a flush on her cheeks from their recent performance, and as soon as the Glee Club had finished, Tina had kissed Mike's cheek (he'd been too busy jumping around with Blaine to do anything more than absently kiss her back) and had left the auditorium to begin her search. The bleachers had been the second place on her list.

Reaching Santana, Tina crosses her arms over her chest and frowns. "You set fire to school property Santana. You went back to putting Coach Sylvester above all of your friends. I mean, seriously, you could have got suspended or expelled."

"So?"

"So? Did I miss something? Did we somehow go back in time two years and I'm a Freshman with a stutter and you're a total bitch who doesn't give a shit about any of us?"

A snort of laughter breaks through the air then, and Santana shakes her head, her perfectly curled Cheerio ponytail swishing against her back. "I don't even know. Maybe."

The punch is unexpected, and Santana grabs her shoulder, cursing aloud. "What the fuck was that for?"

Tina's fists are clenched, and she holds them taut at her sides. A gentle wind blows and tosses her blonde-streaked pigtails. "Oh, so you can still feel something, huh? Because with the way you've been acting, I wasn't sure."

Santana can feel the anger beginning to bubble and burn deep in her gut, and she clenches her jaw, hard, her body tense and coiled. "You have *no* idea how much I feel okay? None. How much I'm having to give up so I can be popular. So people respect me."

"You think burning things will make people respect you?" Tina's voice is aghast, and unbelieving, and completely unimpressed. "God, Santana, are you really that stupid?"

"Fuck you."

"Fuck *you*. You think people don't know about you and Brittany? That we were walking around with our eyes closed for two years? I get that it's hard for you. I get that you're hurting and you don't feel ready for everyone to know about your personal life. What I don't get is why you think that gives you a free pass to be a complete idiot. You want to wreck your own life? Fine. I mean, I'll hate watching it, and I'll cry, but fine. But *don't* think for a moment that any of this was someone else's fault, okay? Because you have ten people in that room who have always gone to bat for you, and then you turned around and stabbed them in the back. Including me. And there are only so many times we can turn the other cheek."

Tina's breath is coming in pants, and it's honestly the longest thing Santana thinks she's ever heard her say in one go. Her shoulders bob up and down and her cheeks are tinged pink.

Santana is still, frozen and silent, and the two of them just stare at each other for a while. Clouds gather overhead, and a light drizzle begins to fall, misting on their hair and eyelashes. Finally, Santana licks her lips, slowly, and takes a deep breath. "I don't know what to do," she admits, wrapping her arms back around her body, like a shield. "I know it was stupid. I just…I'm not talented, like Rachel, and I'm not smart like you. I *need* the Cheerios, and I need to be on top. Coach Sylvester…she's crazy, but if you're loyal, she'll get you there."

With a sigh, Tina finally sits down next to her, their shoulders pressed together. "And if you're not? If she decides, oh I don't know, to suddenly take poorly against something you say, or do, then what? I mean, I'm just saying, this woman isn't exactly know for her consistency. Then what happens to you?"

Santana shrugs. "I don't know."

Tina looks straight ahead, at the football pitch, at the small stream of people still trickling out of the school, pulling jackets over their shoulders and frowning up at the inclimate sky. She cocks her head. "From what I can see, you need to make a decision. You can *absolutely* be on the Cheerios and in Glee, you can. You've done it before, Brit's done it, Quinn did it. Even Kurt and Mercedes did. But you…you can't keep doing it like this. You're going to drive people away, and you're going to hate yourself for it." Leaning in, she bumps their shoulders together. "And you're better than that, San, I know you are. You've got to find another way."

Leaning forward - elbows braced on knees - Santana nods her head. "I'll apologise to Mr Schue."

"Maybe offer to organise his vest collection or something," Tina grins, and it makes Santana crack a small smile.

"You should be more pissed at me," she murmurs, and for a moment her eyes cloud again, but Tina just squeezes her bare knee.

"I'm pissed as hell at you San," she admits, leaning back on the bench seat and propping her feet on the wood in front of her. "But I also know I can't force you into making a decision. All I can say is…do something that could put people in danger, get you suspended or expelled, or damage a perfectly good musical instrument again, and I will kick your ass *so* hard…"

Santana grins then, for real, and begins to laugh. "You'll go Lima Heights?"

Standing up, Tina grabs Santana's hand and pulls her up, looping their arms together. "Mike's been teaching me," she grins as they climb down the bleachers. "Among other things."

They hit the field, soft, damp grass underfoot, before Santana turns around. "I owe you one."

But Tina simply shrugs. "Just don't do it again. Oh!" she quirks a smile, and something twinkles in her dark eyes. "And if you could get the Skanks out from under the bleachers say, 10 o'clock tomorrow morning, then we'd be totally even."

"10 o'clock?"

"Now Blaine's officially transferred, Mike and I have a date with a Warbler tie…"

Santana laughs, hard. "And *I'm* the one who almost got suspended?"


	2. MikeSam I miss you guys

" So he really threw her out?"

Mike fiddles with his webcam so that Sam can see his whole face, and he nods his head. Picking up a pencil, he taps it against the side of the desk. " No joke, just told her to get out until she can prove she's loyal to us and not Sue."

" Wow." In his pixelated picture on the small monitor, Sam pushes his still-too-long bangs back from his face. The Tennessee summer sun has obviously bleached it, and it looks almost white. " What did she do? Did she go off at him? Did I miss some serious bloodshed?"

Thinking back, Mike just chews his bottom lip. It tastes vaguely of Tina's lip gloss and he gets distracted for a moment, but then registers Sam's question. " No. She just…went. Like it didn't even matter."

" You're kidding."

Mike can feel his stomach churning slightly. Ever since the debacle, and Santana's exit from Glee, he's been uneasy. With Sam gone, then Quinn, and now Santana, and their looming Senior year, he feels unsettled. Like too many things are changing at once. " Tina talked to her," he shrugs, turning pages in his Algebra book, vaguely casting his eyes over the problems. " But I don't think she knows what she's going to do yet."

Sam breathes deeply on the other end of Skype, making the speaker crackle. When Mike looks at the screen, he can see that his friend looks tired, and curses at his lack of attention. " How's it going in Knoxville?"

On the screen, Sam rubs at his shoulder. Mike knows whenever he's tired, the old football injury plays up, but the look on his face is hopeful. " It's okay," he nods his head. " I mean…I miss you guys. But it's okay. Dad's working, and Mom's got a couple freelance things lined up. Stacy and Sammy have settled into the Elementary School that our cousins go to…so it's good."

Leaning back in his wheeled chair, Mike rakes a hand through his hair and his face settles in an easy grin. " Any hot girls?" he asks, and is amused when Sam blushes.

" Nah…" He turns away from the computer for a moment, and Mike can hear him talking to someone off screen. From the sound of the voice, Stacy has bounced her way into Sam's room, but the clicking of the door tells Mike that he's managed to shoo her away pretty quick. Having to not share a room had been something that Sam had excitedly texted about when he first moved into his new apartment. After a beat, Sam's face appears back on screen. " Sorry," he shrugs, and Mike can hear him typing something quickly. " No, I don't…I feel like laying off girls for a while."

Mike laughs, and it's loud in his room. " What, should I be telling Kurt he was right about you all along?"

Sam laughs too, but shakes his head. " No, no. I haven't drunk that Koolaid yet. Just…" he brushes his hair back, shrugging his shoulders crookedly and looking down at his hands. " I really liked Mercedes, you know? And I…I guess I can't turn that off as quickly as she can."

The words make Mike's stomach twist again, and he shoves his hands under his thighs to stop himself fiddling. " Hey, Sam, I really am - "

" Sorry? I know. You've told me like fifty times."

" I am though."

The shrug on the other end is short, but honest. " It was just bad timing. I don't hold it against her. She's an awesome girl and I'm not surprised that someone else noticed pretty damn quick."

Sometimes, Mike is amazed by how completely compassionate his friend can be, despite all his own hardships. He's about to say as much when there's a knock on his door. " Michael? You need to finish your homework before Tina can come over."

Mike curses, and he knows Sam can hear it, but he rubs his hand over his face. " I'm on it," he yells back, and then lowering his voice, he quirks an eyebrow towards the computer. " Sorry about that." He picks up his pencil again, flicking his textbook open.

" It's okay," Sam acknowledges. " You need to get going?"

Staring down at his textbook, Mike sighs. " I have thirty problems to get through and a chapter to read for AP Chem," he admits. " Probably should knuckle down or I'm not going to be let out of my room except for bathroom breaks."

Sam's nodding his head in understanding – because next to Tina and Matt, he's the one that knows most about Mike's home life. And well, Brittany, but she doesn't tend to always remember. " Same time tomorrow?"

" Wednesday," Mike corrects. " We've got rehearsal tomorrow and I said I'd run Blaine through the choreography after."

" Wednesday then," Sam agrees. " And hey – Mike?"

" Yeah?"

When he looks up, Sam's leaning into the camera, and he looks serious. " Don't let your parents get you down, okay?" His voice is low and Mike feels like he's looking him directly in the eye. His stomach clenches as Sam continues. " Do what makes you happy."

Mike's silent for a beat, but then nods his head. " Okay," he agrees, even though that's _so _much easier to say then to do.

Sam seems to know this too, but he doesn't mention it. Instead, he just smiles, easily. " Say hi to everyone for me, 'kay? Especially Tina."

This makes a real smile break across Mike's face. " I will," he promises. " We miss you, man."

" Miss you guys too," Sam grins, waving his fingers in front of the camera. " Later, man."

Mike reaches up switching off the camera, and turns to his homework. The words and numbers stare back at him, and he sighs, deeply. Reaching out, he turns the stereo on and stands up from his chair. As the music begins, he feels his stomach unclench and his muscles relax. His foot starts moving to the beat.

Maybe he'll dance, just for a minute.

There can't be anything wrong with that, right?


	3. Quinn Al Fresco

Quinn flicks the end of her cigarette, ashes scattering to the ground. When she brings it to her lips, the feel is burning and awkward, and she hasn't quite got used to the acrid taste yet. Her bright pink lips stain the end of the butt, and she flicks a piece of magenta hair away from her face. She knows she should be in English Lit right now, reading Sonnets or some shit, but she's pretty much decided that any class before noon is totally for suckers.

She's leaning against one of the wooden struts of the bleachers, face tipped upwards into the shards of morning sun, when suddenly she hears footsteps approaching from the other end of the bleachers. Expecting it to be Mack, or Sheila, or Ronnie, she's surprised when she hears the sound of low, masculine laughter.

She's even more surprised when she hears a familiar name be chuckled into the open air. " _Tina..."_

Ever since her Junior year, she'd heard rumours about Mike and Tina. Most of the Glee club has apparently walked in on them in different places around school (the Art cupboard, the stair well, the choir room, the auditorium, the Science room, the Ladies' room on the first floor...), but she's never had the misfortune before. And leaning forward (but keeping out of sight), she realises that she is most definitely having that misfortune *now*.

Tina's leaning up against one of the poles, her eyelashes lowered to half-mast and fluttering against her cheeks, and a broad smile on her face. One of her hands it wrapped around Mike's tie, pulling him towards her, and the other is fiddling with his belt buckle. Quinn can't hear what they're saying to each other, but then Mike's mouth is on Tina's neck and his hands are running up the back of her bare calves.

Quinn curses, throwing her cigarette to the ground and watching the embers burn. To get out from the bleachers, she'd have to walk past them, but if she stays there she feels like there's a very high possibility that she might see more of her friends then she ever truly intended. Even if they're both pretty good looking.

There's more laughter, and a squeak, and - even though she knows she shouldn't - Quinn sneaks a peek through the struts. One of Tina's legs is wrapped around Mike's waist, and his jeans are pushed down so she can see a strip of his bare, pale ass beneath his shirttails. Suddenly all the abandoned condom wrappers suddenly make sense. Tina's arms are around Mike's neck, their lips together, hard and hot and wet and Quinn can feel her jaw drop open. She crouches to the floor, cursing in a whisper, one hand over her eyes. Behind her, she can hear Mike's heavy breathing and Tina's mumbled Korean curses and feels her cheeks blushing scarlet.

Dammit! She's meant to be _badass _now - not completely thrown off by two of her friends having sex in public places and - _God damn - _she can't believe they're still going. Tina and Mike have some stamina.

She curls herself up into a small ball, resting her forehead on her knees to block out the sounds of half-laughter-half-groaning that is increasing in volume and frequency. From across the ground she catches a phrase from Mike's lips that she can't even believe he _knows, _let alone says with confidence. And such enthusiasm. And Tina's reply is just as...involved. If Quinn remembers sex right (or movies are to be believed), they're nearing the end of their little tryst - Mike is grabbing Tina hard and she's moaning his name loud enough that Quinn's surprised the whole school doesn't hear.

Footsteps coming towards the bleachers suddenly change everything.

"Fabray?" It's Ronnie, calling her name, obviously expecting to find her here for their 11am smoke-and-bitch. And she's two seconds away from stumbling upon Tina and Mike, still very much intertwined.

In an instant, she makes a decision. Grabbing her bag, Quinn dashes out of her hiding place and streaks past Mike and Tina, who yelp at the sight of her, pulling away from each other and adjusting their clothes with a multitude of curses. Quinn doesn't even look back at them, she just skids along the ground, her black boots throwing up dry dirt until she stops, still, in front of Ronnie.

" Hey." Quinn's breathless, and still slightly blushing, but she pulls herself together. Tossing her hair away from her face, she pulls on her mask of nonchalance. " What the hell are you yelling for?"

Ronnie looks at her curiously, and just shrugs. " Smoke?" she asks, pulling one out of her purse.

" Whatever," Quinn shrugs back, taking it out of her stubby fingers and placing it on her bottom lip. She lights it with a swish of orange flame, breathing in the smoky taste. Pretending she's just lazing against the wall, she leans her head back and glances over at the corner. There's no movement, and so she continues breathing in and out, flicking her attention between Ronnie's prattle about her latest tattoo plans (and seriously, the girl screamed when she pricked herself with a safety pin, the tattoo thing is *so* all talk), and the shadows.

Suddenly, there's a shuffle, and the sound of a voice, and Ronnie's head pops up. "What was that?" she asks, peering into the darkness.

Thinking on her feet, Quinn throws her cigarette down. "I didn't hear anything."

"There was a noise. It might be Figgins. Or Coach Beiste."

Scoffing, Quinn grabs her sunglasses, pushing them up her nose. "Stop being a whiny bitch," she orders, in full HBIC mode (and thank God for the years of Sue Sylvester training and Santana competition because it comes back to her like second nature). "Come on, let's go get a slushy. I feel like something cherry in my mouth."

Ronnie pretty much does what she's told, so she follows Quinn without argument. They're halfway across the field when Quinn looks over her shoulder and catches sight of two flashes of dark hair exiting the area under the bleachers. She sighs with relief.

Later on, when she goes to her locker to find her spare lighter, there is a small, star-shaped post-it note stuck through the vents. She recognises the loopy writing in an instant; two years of sitting across the row from each other in French class made it inevitable. There are only two small, simple words.

_Thank you.  
><em>  
>Quinn's smiling,but she damps it down. She's about to crumple the note up in her hand when she realises there is something written on the flip-side. Turning it over, she finds three words that make her heart stutter.<p>

_We miss you. _


	4. I Am Unicorn  SanTina, booty camp spies

The auditorium is dark - only the stage lights on - and kind of musty, and the two girls in the back whisper as they creep onto the balcony, keeping their heads ducked low.

"You know I have like, a hundred better things I could be doing right now?"

Over her shoulder, Tina rolls her eyes at Santana, and tugs her by the hand out onto the small, protruding platform. When they first started having Thursday coffee together, Santana had told her about how she and Quinn and Coach Sylvester used to spy on the Glee club from there, back before they joined up and everything was new and fresh and 'Don't Stop Believing' ran circles in her head. And since Mr Schue had first told Mike (and Mike had therefore told Tina) about Booty Camp, Tina had been formulating her plan. Sitting down on the floor, Tina dangles her feet over the side. "Brittany's in the SpEd room for English 1:1 and you don't have Cheerios practice til 4. So shut up, and sit down, because no, you don't."

Santana grumbles, but sits down on the floor next to Tina, crossing her legs so her red and white skirt flutters about her knees. She fiddles with the lace on her white sneaker. "I don't know why you wanted to drag me here anyways. I know how to dance and Mr Schue won't let me back anyways."

Tina shoots her a sideways glance. "Have you even asked him?"

There's a half shrug, and Tina knows the answer before Santana even opens her mouth. "No...I will." Off of Tina's skeptical look, she reaches out and swats her arm. "I *will*, okay? I've just been kind of busy this week. Campaign stuff."

Tina knows that Santana's been helping Brit help Kurt, so she doesn't argue. Instead, she just reaches into her bag and pulls out a packet of liquorice. "Want one?"

"Not exactly on the Sue Sylvester Master Cleanse," Santana laughs, but takes a piece anyways, popping it between her lips. "So I still don't exactly know what we're doing here Loser. It's Booty Camp. So unless Finn manages to maim another club member or the Hobbit strangles himself with one of his ridiculous bow-ties..." she shrugs, fingers splaying against the rough edge of her skirt. "I'm not sure what I'm meant to be watching."

She gets her answer, however, when Tina lets out a small sound - somewhere between a squeak and a gasp - and grabs her hand. Her fingernails almost bite into Santana's skin, making her curse, but then Santana looks down at the stage and, "Ooooh."

Mike stands in a red tank top and low slung black pants, and holds his arm over his head in a stretch that makes his biceps flex the muscles in his back shift under the thin material of his shirt.

"Damn." The word falls from Santana's lips before she's even thought it, and she can't help but lean forward slightly to get a better look. "Someone's been eating their Wheeties."

"You have no idea," Tina sighs, happily, licking her lips and staring at the stage where Mike is now running through a couple simple steps, his lips moving in inaudible explanation and his pace slow as Finn watches on from the side. "God San, you should have seen his face when Mr Schue asked him to help out. He's been so stressed out recently and he was just so happy about it."

"He's been stressed out?" Santana echoes, curiously, because Mike is one of those guys that always seems cool, that plays his emotions close to his chest.

Tina ducks her chin, dark hair tumbling over her shoulder and her lips pressed close together, as though she knows she shouldn't have said anything, but she nods her head. "His parents," she explains, succinctly, and she doesn't have to say much more, because Santana knows a little about them from Tina, and a little about them from Brittany, and has pieced together a pretty clear picture from the comments Mike's let slip. Tina shrugs her shoulders. "But he was just so proud to be asked, and so excited, honestly, I could have jumped him right there."

"Is there every a time you *don't* want to jump him?"

Tina bites her lip for a second, obviously thinking. "Fair point."

"You know they've moved couches under the bleachers?"

The look Tina gives her screams 'bitch, please', and Santana snorts a laugh. "That explains where you were second period, huh?"

Tina doesn't even bother to answer. She just grins.

They both stare down, watching as Mike pivots and turns, his body moving fluidly to the music that's coming from the piano to the side. Santana takes a deep breath in, and turns her head slightly so she can study Tina's face. She's staring, hands fisting in her skirt, the material bunched up between her fingers and the pale skin above her knees bright in the dim light. Her ruby red lip is caught between her teeth and as Mike executes a flawless pirouette, her breath seems to catch.

Shuffling closer, Santana nudges Tina with her shoulder. "Ask you something?"

"Mmm?" Tina's eyes are still focused on the stage. Mike drags a foot across the floor in a wide arc, slowly and purposefully.

Santana looks between the dancing man on the stage, and the girl sitting next to her, both completely enraptured in what they are doing – one dancing, the other drooling. "You know I'm only asking because you're my girl, and not because I would *ever* go there."

"You're in love with Brittany," Tina interjects, without even breaking her gaze. "I think my boyfriend's safe."

Santana smacks Tina's thigh, and the sound is loud in the quiet of the auditorium. Tina frowns and shushes her, tearing her eyes away from the stage long enough to smack her back. They tussle briefly, stifling giggles and shushing each other, with hushed voices and fingers on lips, but finally call a truce, their arms ending up intertwined and Santana nudges Tina in the ribs with her elbow. "*Anyways*," she stresses, keeping her voice low. "What I was gonna' say...the rhythm...it pays off, right?"

Tina's laugh is somewhere between a shout and a cough and she smothers it with her hands. Turning to face Santana, she raises an eyebrow in a perfect arc. "You're dating Brittany and you're really asking me that?"

"We're not dating..." Santana mumbles, but at Tina's pointed glare, she relents. "Fine. I'm just asking."

Giving in, Tina reaches across and squeezes Santana's knee. "It translates," she admits with a large grin on her face, and Santana can't help but roll her eyes and laugh.

"Wanky."

"Jealous."

"Of you or Mike?"

Tina giggles, shrugging her shoulders. "Either. Both."

They snuggle into each other's sides, and Santana rests her head on Tina's shoulder. Staring down at the stage, she breathes in and sighs, deeply. "There's just something about dancers, huh?"

Leaning her dark head against Santana's, Tina smiles softly. "San, we never had a chance."


	5. I Am Unicorn  MikeBrit  My vote

"I'm running for Class President."

She's barely sat down in the library, her binder hugged to her chest, when the words spill from her lips. Mike looks up from where he's been going over his own geometry notes and cocks his head to the side. "What?"

Brittany pushes her long, gold hair over her shoulder with a flick of her wrist. "Well I was talking to Santana and she made me see that I'm totally a unicorn, and there hasn't been a girl unicorn who was a Class President since like, the 90s, so I decided to run. Santana's going to help me. We've got it all planned out. Well, San does."

Mike laughs, slightly, and pats Brittany's forearm. "Slow down," he requests, tapping his pen against the side of the desk and propping his chin on his palm. Three late nights in a row studying for his AP Chem test – followed by Booty Camp each afternoon - have taken their toll and he feels sluggish and drained. "I thought you were helping Kurt with his campaign?"

Brittany twirls a pencil in her fingers like a baton. "I _was. _ But…I'm a unicorn too. And I want people to know that – I don't want to keep it a secret anymore."

Mike's fairly certain that she's talking about more than just the presidential race, but he lets it slide and just squeezes her hand. "You'll make a great President," he assures her. "I just thought you didn't want to do it yourself. I thought you wanted to be the 'woman behind the man'?"

They'd talked about the Presidential race earlier in the week when he'd found her in the school Library with a box of Sharpies and pack of glitter, and a stack of photos of Kurt. Tina had even drawn the picture of the unicorn for Brittany to use on the posters, and the blonde girl had seemed so stoked about being campaign manager…he's surprised that she changed track so quickly.

It all makes sudden sense, however, when Brittany licks her lips, slowly and doesn't meet his eyes. "I thought…maybe I wasn't smart enough to do it myself."

Mike feels his stomach instantly clench, and the words shoot from his lips, "Brittany, _no. _ Of course you're smart enough. You're amazing," he tells her and he believes every inch of it. So what if she can't remember how to find the angles inside a circle, or spell Mississippi, or recite Spanish verbs. She is brilliant, and kind, and sometimes so freaking _insightful _that she constantly bowled him over.

Ever since the 4th grade, when Mike began tutoring Brittany, he's known she doesn't think the same way as everyone else. And he knows that teachers in their schools have found that a challenge, found _her _a challenge, and easy to dismiss as an educational write-off. But sitting with their geometry books spread around them, and a hopeful, eager, excited look on her face, he knows they're fools, each and every one of them.

"You really think so?" Her voice is soft and nervous and a small smile plays on her lips as she twists a piece of her hair around her finger.

He squeezes her thumb once, twice, three times. "Grades don't make you smart," he assures her – because Brittany will never be an A student – and she smiles, because it's something he's been saying since they were 10, and it's like a mantra to the two of them.

"Knowing what you want and working for it makes you smart," she finishes with a nod of her head. "I want to be Senior Class President. I want people to be able to look at me and know it's okay…" she pauses for a second, scribbling on the corner of her notebook. "It's okay if you're not super smart, or you're gay, or Lebanese, or you can't dance or you can't sing or you're a freak. We're all freaks. Freaks together."

Mike laughs, tired but honest. "That should be your campaign slogan."

Brittany laughs too, bright and light and sometimes Mike is amazed by how she can just stay so upbeat all the time. He's both jealous and proud.

"Will you vote for me?" she asks, grinning, stretching her arms above her head. He can hear her shoulder pop, and winces.

"I don't know," he teases, poking her in the side and making her laugh. "What will you do for me?"

"What do you want me to do?" she asks, getting her notebook out, and it makes him laugh because she looks at him with such expectancy, prepared to take his wishes seriously to heart. In that moment, he knows she'll make a brilliant president.

"Right now?" he prompts, scooting his chair closer to the table. "Geometry. After that, we'll talk." He flips open his notebook to show her the diagrams there, and watches as she carefully, studiously begins copying them onto her own paper. She bites her bottom lip between her teeth, moving her ruler and pencil with focused, painstaking movements, her eyes fixed on the white, square-ruled paper and he really wonders if anyone realises just how hard she works.

He may stay up late studying, and have to recite verbs aloud at the dinner table, and wait for every report card with dread and anxiety. He might have spent the first 16 years of his life hiding his true passion and watching longingly after Thursday evening Street Dance classes, and having to practice in his room after his parents had gone to bed. But he'd never had to worry about numbers staying on a page when he reads them, or words turning backwards, or concepts not making sense. He'd never had to worry about 'what next' after High School, about college or his career. He'd never really had the freedom to worry about them. But Brit…

Reaching across, he grasps her free hand as she stares down at the questions in her book. She looks up, surprised to find him staring at her. "Do I have something on my face?"

Shaking his head, he works his throat for a second, trying to find the words. Trying to find anything except silence and a too-big Adam's apple that seems to block his voice. "No," he finally manages. "I just…you'll make a brilliant President, okay? You've got my vote."

Brittany's grin is wide and excited, and she throws her arms around his neck, cherry lips pressing against his cheek. "I won't let you down," she promises, nuzzling her nose into his skin.

Breathing deeply, he sighs from his toes. "You never do."


End file.
